


Needle and Thread

by Zelderp



Series: Wolfskinder [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Brothels, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Gen, Lemon, Love, M/M, Multi, Murder, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sad, Sex, Suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-20 12:44:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8249566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zelderp/pseuds/Zelderp
Summary: The once ornery, cloddish little girl from the North now serves the House of Black and White as an assassin.The inside look at Arya Stark's new life, with unforgiving violence and the doleful challenge to forget her old life.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to start with pretty short chapters, but this fanfic is about Arya (mainly).  
> It really is going to focus on her new life, her killings, what she does, and an inside look at being an assassin.  
> Good luck, hopefully you enjoy it.  
> (Btdubs, there will be cursing like a motherfucker.)  
> Commence the reading, my child.

“Summer olives! Sweet summer olives!”

The Braavosi sun was heavy with heat, beating the dry lands with its unforgiving rays. Even with winter coming, Braavos was still hell-hot.  
Old, crude men with wrinkled cheeks and wined breath sat under shade near the scintillating sea. Women with heavy eyes sold oysters and vinegar from run-down wooden carts. Innocent children ran from one stone alley to another, laughter blooming in every corner of the city. The aroma of freshly baked poormen’s bread filled the air, the smell of the salt sea still lingering. They were the smallfolk of Braavos. 

And there she stood. 

Her glazed doe eyes lay above her plump, rose-coloured cheeks. Light freckles littered her lush face. Her full pink lips bore words of persuasion to buy her goods. Her hair was as blonde as a Targaryen, complimenting her innocent frame. It was tied back, two small braids keeping it out of her face. This was not her born face. This one of many faces she wore. She did not look like Arya Stark, but she was.  
She pushed a cart of summer olives with oysters. Her dress was fine. It was no lady’s, of course. A simple dress with fine Braavosi sewing would do a poor girl good. Her hands gripped her wooden cart tightly, almost asking for splinters. She wouldn't dare let go, and spill summer olives and oysters all around her. She wouldn't dare let them touch the stone floor. She had buyers to sell to, and coin to gain.

“Sweet summer olives with oysters!” 

Finally, someone called.

“Girl! Come ‘ere!”

An older man with a stone nose and wrinkled eyes called to her. He was inebriated, quite obviously. The man was boorish, one of the common drunkards around Braavos. Two olives and oysters, and he shut up. She shouted for buyers to look at her cart, two hours passing until the cart was barren.

She wheeled her arid cart to a sour smelling alleyway, walking fast as she did. 

And there was her destination. A stone-built establishment of lust. Moss grew on the cracks of the stone steps to the door, complicated labyrinths of green. Inside were women dressed salaciously, scraps of cloth draped over their chest and hips. Dark red silk curtains hung at every corner of the brothel. The smell of ship-imported Dornish wine lingered in the air, along with perfumed oils. Some of the workers were hardly women. Some looked like scared does, sweet summer children without mothers, fathers, or highborn names to glorify. Bastards, orphans, young widows, smallfolk, and the lonely. Some were two-and-ten, even, but Arya doubted they were spreading their legs for men to adore. High-pitched moans were to be heard, if you cared to listen. 

She left her empty cart in a crook outside the brothel. She piped up the steps, quick to not linger outside too long. She pressed her hand against the heavy wooden door, opening it with a creak. 

An ocher-haired girl lumbered across the floor into another room with an older man with thick dark brown hair and olive skin. A dark-haired man dressed in an elegant red robe smiled at Arya, opening his arms in a welcoming notion. 

“Welcome, young girl. Looking to taste some of our sweet girls? I assure you no disappointment, they are rather lovely to play with.” His accent was thick.

She stammered for a moment, beginning to utter out the words. 

“No, m’lord. I need a job. My mother died and it's been so terrible, you see. I-”

“We don't need anymore.. Girls, if you will. I'm afraid you'll have to come back another time.”

“Please, m’lord. I can fuck good.”

He paused, taking it into consideration.

“I heard white-haired women have the tits of men. Quite disappointing, small and useless here. Show me what's under that dress of yours, and maybe we can find a place for you. Follow me, little flower.”

Her fist clenched at the thought of showing her body to him, but it was not her body after all. 

“Yes, m’lord.” 

She followed the man down a hallway, moans of girls filling her ears. The sound of gruff men shoving thick cocks down thirsty throats and fucking plump arses was all around. The smell of sweet wine became stronger. He finally opened a door to a room with a single chair. Vermillion curtains draped all around, but no furniture was to be found except for the sole chair. He sat down, sighing as he did. 

“Come here, girl. Show me those tits of yours.”

“Yes, m’lord.”

“I'm no lord, girl. Call me Cecil.”

She nodded, her hands creeping down her legs to pull up her dress. She lifted it slowly, revealing her smooth calves, her wobbly knees, her inviting thighs. She paused momentarily, hesitating to show the man. The girl was innocently wanton, beautifully wholesome. She began ruffling up the dress so she could lift it higher, the anxiety in her chest filling it whole. The smooth V-shaped crease that led to her unshaven blonde mound was tantalising to the man. Her stomach was smooth, a golden track running up to her perky breasts. They weren’t the biggest the man had seen, no, but they were a good man’s handful. Her nipples were pink rosebuds, already hard. It was his own personal peep show. He loved every second of this foreign woman’s body. If you could call it her body. 

“What's your name, girl?”

“Alys.” No one.

“And where are you from, Alys?”

“I lived with The Forresters. I was their handmaiden. In Westeros.” 

She held up her dress still, her body displayed like a statue. 

“Come closer, Alys. I do want to taste those sweet flowers of yours.” 

She nodded, coming closer to the man. Her legs slipped over his, almost straddling him. His cock was swollen, hard and ready for the young girl. The girl held up the bunched dress up to her collarbone with just one hand, part of the dress draping one breast but leaving the other exposed. He closed his eyes, opening his mouth to take in her supple breast, when she dug a dagger into his back. His eyes opened wide, just moments away from sucking her tender nipple. The blood trickled down his neck, warm to the touch. The girl let the dress go, it falling gracefully, the excess folding on the man’s lap.

Her grip was tight when she opened her mouth close to his ear.

“The debt is paid. Valar morghulis.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully, you guys liked the few words I wrote to get this fic started.  
> That reference to the Forresters from the Game of Thrones Telltale game is real.  
> Do leave any comments, suggestions, etc., if you please.  
> Until next time, little dove.  
> <3


End file.
